


There Once Was a Little Boy

by AtlinMerrick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Hence the explicit tag, Kid!Lock, Kidlock, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rimming, The day they met as little boys...and their lives now as men, adult!lock, each chapter stands alone all chapters end happy though there may be angst along the way, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-06-01 20:50:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6535777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if John Watson and Sherlock Holmes met much, much sooner, when they were only little? These are the wee stories of when two boys were small, and how they grew up and grew together as men.</p><p>Beautiful <a href="http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/142764412922/missmuffin221-thats-the-fluff-you-need-im">cover art by Missmuffin221</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Satellites

**Author's Note:**

  * For [221b_hound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/gifts), [verityburns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verityburns/gifts).



There once was a little boy. Well, he wasn't so little really, or no littler than most other five-year-olds, who all seemed about the same size as him. John would have to think about that.

John liked to do that, to think about things. It was interesting and it gave him something to do and John very much liked to be busy, being a naturally sorting-out sort of boy.

For example, he liked moving the rock border in grandmum's garden so that it was straight again. Grandmum had a tendency to kick the rocks a bit when she watered the hydrangeas and the roses, so John would follow behind her setting the rocks right.

He was always pleased with himself after, when the pretty plants all had their nice border lined up again. Grandmum said all that shifting was going to give him big muscles one day, and John always crooked his arm then and made a muscle-y face.

He liked it when grandmum laughed so he'd usually do both arms and puff out his chest too, which made her absolutely howl. It wasn't until dozens of years later that John realised his grandmother was pushing those rocks out of place on purpose. So that they could laugh. The thing is, when John realised this he cried. Sherlock had held him and asked him why.

When John told him Sherlock said softly, "I wish I'd known her."

Though Sherlock somehow never met his grandmum, it was because of her John met Sherlock. Sort of.

Really it was the rocks.

Because John would fuss with those rocks even when they weren't out of sorts.

When mum left him at grandmum's and grandmum was busy doing other things, John would patrol the back garden and tidy things. He'd been taught how to deadhead roses and so he'd do that. And he'd gather up some of the fallen leaves from the hydrangeas, and he'd shift the rocks until they were just, just _so._

One time that shifting had John having a one-sided fight with a bumble bee. He didn't know she was on the rock and he didn't know that it was a bee stinging him over and over in his little finger but he started whimpering and then fell back onto his bum, clutching his hand to his chest.

He looked at his pinkie and it was dotted with red marks and already hurting. It hurt too much to cry so John just clutched it close and rocked and rocked.

It wasn't until later that night that he started crying because it _really hurt._

Mummy took him to A&E, but it was a Saturday night and so they had to wait for a long time, which in the end was fine because that's how five-year-old John Watson met four-year-old Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock sat across from him in one of the too-big chairs, his round pale face solemn and tired. John blinked his gaze to the clock. It was nearly midnight and he was tired too, but his hand hurt too much to sleep. So he watched the man next to Sherlock give him a little poke now and again, so that the boy wouldn't fall asleep. "Mustn't sleep Sherlock," he said, over and over.

Sherlock did fall asleep though, because the man—John thought it was probably Sherlock's daddy—fell asleep, too. John didn't know why Sherlock should stay awake but since it was important, he wriggled out of his chair, and went over to touch Sherlock on the shoulder. "Mustn't sleep," he said, until Sherlock blinked himself awake.

John went and sat back down then but, as if they were connected already, satellites bound tight in orbit around one another, Sherlock followed and stood in front of John's chair.

"I fell off my bithycle and hit my head on the kerb," he said, lispy-tired. "So I have to thtay up until they make sure I'm not having a concussion."

John nodded solemnly. Then he realised Sherlock should know why _he_ was here, so he held out his finger. It was swollen and pink and very hot.

"It's very hot," John said and held it further out so Sherlock could feel. Sherlock did, touching quite gingerly. He peered close, tongue out the corner of his mouth, and said, "It was a bee, wasn't it?"

John slid off his chair, as if this would somehow bring him closer to his own hand. He looked along with Sherlock, who pointed to three red dots. "There are too many for a honey bee. They can only sting you one time. I guess it was a bumble bee then."

"It was by a rock," John said in explanation, while Sherlock nodded as if he understood. "It doesn't hurt any more," John said happily, and Sherlock nodded again, as if he understood.

That would have been that except when John and his mum were called in to see the doctor John went into a bit of a panic.

"It hurts, it hurts," he kept saying, clutching his hand to his chest, hot tears running down his cheeks.

Sherlock had stood solemnly in front of John's mum and asked if he could help and John's mum looked at Sherlock's dad, who nodded yes.

So both children were seen by the same doctor at the same time, sitting side-by-side on the exam bench.

That would have been that except it wasn't. Once two objects are in orbit around each other it takes something quite dramatic to break them apart.

Neither Mrs. Watson nor Mr. Holmes were really the dramatic type.

So over the next weeks and months the boys worried one another well of their little hurts, then over the months and the years they worried one another well of their big hurts, even when they were the reason for the hurts.

Because a fifteen-year-old boy will believe a sixteen-year-old boy when he shouts, "You selfish git, you didn't have to _go away_ for college you god damn arse. God damn it Sherlock you could have gone to UCL or something. Fucking _Oxford._ Fucking fucking _Oxford!"_

But like bee stung fingers and a head that is actually very hard to concuss—though Sherlock would accidentally try twice more through the years—they got over these hurts too, though never, not ever out of one another's orbit.

It was good Sherlock went away though, and it was good that John followed in his footsteps, first with the army and then his own stint at college, studying medicine.

By the time they were in their late twenties they'd done enough to know that no one else _was_ enough, not for either of them. Sometimes you have to know that, you have to grow awhile without the love of your life to know that that's what he _is._

Now, every few years, one of them remembers something from that first time they met. Every few years, usually when they're lazily spooned in bed at night, staring at the rain on the bedroom windowpane, one will say, "Remember…?"

What they remember is different each time but not what happens after. Or maybe what happens after is really the same thing expressed in different ways.

"Like that…yes, higher though, so you rub up against my bollocks, so—ooh god yes," Sherlock said tonight, encouraging the push of John's cock between his lube-slicked legs.

If it's weird that remembering the children they were makes the men they are become horny, they don't really care. They've never cared about things like that.

What they care about is… "Push, pu-pu-push John. Oh!"

Sherlock's shaky with it, with the need, and it makes him loose-limbed, his muscles already going post-coital soft as he pants at each begged-for push. John's a little bit amazed how much he feels with the head of his cock, how he feels it slicking against the tight-wrinkled skin of Sherlock's balls, how with it he can feel Sherlock jerking himself.

Giggling John huffs, "Feels…like…you're…wanking _me."_ The giggles aren't always an aphrodisiac but sometimes they are.

So Sherlock huffs back, but it's not words, it's short little _uh, uh, uhs_ and then he tips over and starts to come with a grunt.

John presses his ear to Sherlock's back and listens to the rumbling, then the pounding of Sherlock's heart, then its slow steadying. Eventually Sherlock says, "Y'r turn," all lispy-tired, and John holds him still when he tries to shift.

Instead John does what he still thinks is delightfully dirty. He pulls out from between Sherlock's long legs and makes little noises while he jerks himself off, coming all over Sherlock's beautiful backside and even pushing his still-coming cock between the cheeks a bit so he can get Sherlock wet.

Afterward he holds Sherlock close against his chest. It's been a long day spent saving the world and they need to rest before it starts up all over again. So John pets Sherlock and whispers, "Must sleep, Sherlock. Must sleep."

Until Sherlock does.

_This will be many chapters of wee, self-contained stories, each imagining how John and Sherlock might have met when they were little. In my John and Sherlock book[The Night They Met](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/135446829314/the-night-they-met-improbable-press-the-night) there's a tale called "Time Immemorial," about the boys meeting when they are very young, and how they grew up to love each other. Since that story seems to touch people, I thought it might be sweet to imagine John and Sherlock's lives had they known one another from the beginning. From the very beginning. (Though there will be more chapters I'm marking this as complete, since marking a series of short stories as a work-in-progress keeps some folks from ever reading it.) NEW! [Lockedinjohnlock so very kindly podficced](https://soundcloud.com/lockedinjohnlock/there-once-was-a-little-boy-by-atlin-merrick) this chapter, and [Missmuffin221](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/142764412922/missmuffin221-thats-the-fluff-you-need-im) made a lovely cover!_


	2. Surgery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When we went to the bear shop to make her they had all these things you could pick for eyes and heads and clothes and stuff and they also had these hearts you put inside with your secrets..."

He didn't want their help _anyways._

Sherlock Holmes wriggle-shifted on the grass, placed his little bear in the hollow of his crossed legs, then curled over her, protective.

It wasn't that the other children on the playground had said anything mean. No, they hadn't said one single thing at all, and that was the _point._ Sherlock knew they knew he was sad, and he also knew you help sad people, that's what daddy says. And it wasn't like he didn't look up hopefully every time someone sat down near him, because he did, but no one said _anything_ any of those times, they just wandered off after he sighed a lot and do you know what? It was fine, it was a-a-all…

Sherlock curled lower, crossed his little legs tighter and sniffled against his stuffed bear's heart place. "It's okay," he told her.

But it wasn't okay, which is why Sherlock couldn't stop crying and why, after awhile he had to run the back of his hand under his nose, so nose stuff wouldn't get on his bear. When his hand came away glistening wet, Sherlock made an actual "Ugh," sound because Sherlock did not like…fluids.

That didn't stop him from looking at his kind of closely, his nose all bunched up and his lips drawn back in a toothy grimace. As much as he hated gooey things and dead things and things that were messy, somehow Sherlock always _looked_ at them.

"Do you have a bug?"

Sherlock looked up at a little boy at the same time as he hastily scrubbed the back of his hand on the grass. "Um, no." Sherlock sniffled again, wiped with the back of his hand again. He looked at this mess too, made a face, then scrubbed his hand on the earth again.

"That's mucus," the little boy said, sitting down. The boy didn't seem to care that he sat on the grass more or less where Sherlock had been rubbing his mucus.

"I'm John. I turned this many yesterday."

John spread all the fingers of one hand and Sherlock counted them off in his head.

"I'm that many, too."

"What's your name?"

"Sherlock."

"That's a nice name."

Sherlock blinked. "That's not what people usually say."

"What d'they say?"

"Sher _what?"_

John peered at the small creature nested in the crux of Sherlock's legs. "Who's that?"

Sherlock cuddled the bear gently to his chest and said, "This is Rosie." Then Sherlock felt the need to explain a few things. In detail.

"When we went to the bear shop to make her they had all these things you could pick for eyes and heads and clothes and stuff and they also had these hearts you put inside with your secrets. The prettiest one was this sparkly yellow heart with orange on the edges that looked just like the roses that daddy grows for mummy. But I think mummy gets, um, mucus when she smells them but she won't tell daddy because she doesn't want him to be sad that they make her feel that way and so that's why she's called Rosie."

At the sound of his bear's name Sherlock's eyes suddenly filled up and his mouth pulled down. "But she's p-p-" he tried to say but couldn't.

John's mouth pulled down in sympathy and, a bit shy about touching, he gently patted the grass between them while Sherlock wept.

Everyone was sad awhile.

Then Sherlock wiped his nose on the back of his hand and turned Rosie so John could see her rotund little belly. He wasn't really surprised to see stuffing innards peeping out from a two-inch split in Rosie's seam, one clearly working its way up toward Rosie's little bear heart.

"She's _p-p-poorly."_ More frowns. More tears. More mucus. More grass pats.

And then John got up and ran away.

Sherlock was so shocked he hiccough-inhaled his own spit and then cried some more because that hurt. After awhile he wiped his nose with both hands and cried even more because now the snot was just so shiny and disgusting and by the time John came back Sherlock was in such a state it took an entire ten seconds to realise his new friend had returned.

When finally the grass had seen quite a bit more of Sherlock's fluids, and John had found a rather doubtfully-hygienic tissue to give Sherlock for wiping, they sat there and just breathed themselves calm.

After that, John held both little hands palm up toward Rosie.

As if they already had between them a history of trust given and trust earned, Sherlock Holmes gave John Watson his poorly little bear.

Tongue suddenly busy lick-licking his lips, John crossed his legs, placed the bear across them, and John Watson proceeded to perform safety pin surgery.

He'd collected nine pins from a teacher and three other kids, and with them John carefully stitched Rosie's belly together while Sherlock leaned close, huffing mucusy little wheezes against the side of John's face.

By the time John was placing the last pin in his patient, Sherlock was wiggling back and forth on his bum, anxious and grabby. The moment John held Rosie up Sherlock clutched her and squeezed her. "Thank you!" he shouted into her belly and John grinned a big _you're welcome!_

After awhile the boys stretched back onto the grass and chattered about nothing much. Eventually it was time to go back inside.

Before they each went in different directions John said, "There's something strange about your bear."

Sherlock squinted at Rosie, then at John, and did then what he will pretty much never do for anyone ever except John. He kept his mouth shut and waited.

"You said she has a yellowy orange heart but I saw it a bit and it was purple."

The second bell went and Sherlock had probably the most brilliant idea he ever had _ever_ and that includes the one he'll have at twenty-eight, when he figures out how to get Bakelite to burn without emitting brain-damaging poisonous gas.

"If you come back tomorrow I'll tell you why!" said Sherlock breathless. John nodded yes with a grin, and ran off.

They met again the next day and then over the next years, doing lots of things together and then things apart. They moved to different schools, then different colleges, then, for awhile, different cities. But they always came back to London for visits, they always emailed each other and IRCed, and so neither was surprised when their friendship blossomed into romance, not too long after John returned from Afghanistan.

What did surprise John just now, stretched out on their bed and eyeing Rosie stuffed up on a cobwebby bookshelf corner, was that he'd never asked Sherlock a very important thing about that bear.

He grinned and beside him Sherlock looked up from red-penning the half-page write-up he'd got in _The Times_ after that thing with the clown-banker. "What?"

John rolled onto his belly, "Just remembering what you told me about bear hearts."

Sherlock's gaze flicked up to bookshelf shadow. He grinned, and John narrowed his eyes. "What?"

Sherlock shoved the article to the floor and then John onto his back. He clambered on top of him.

"What did you say to Rosie's heart?"

Because that was the thing you did when you built your very own bear, John knew; you whispered wishes to her purple-sparkle heart ("Purple'th my favourite colour now!"), then you tucked those wishes inside, safe forever.

Sherlock wriggled some more, until he had his trousers and pants pushed down to his thighs. He started to rut against John's jeans and John half-wondered if half-page articles in _The Times_ got Sherlock horny.

"Tell me," John whispered, biting the salt-sweet skin of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock grunted deep, and John's teeth tugged. Sherlock keened and John tugged harder. This went on awhile, until Sherlock started to shake, and then five, four, three, two…Sherlock moaned, stilled, and started to come and come, a wonderful sticky-wet heat that pooled right through John's dark jeans.

After a boneless little while, Sherlock oozed himself to the mattress with a contented sigh. John looked down, made a pleased noise at the gooey mess on his trousers. He has long had a thing for Sherlock's…fluids.

So while John undid his jeans, Sherlock undid John's shirt, and when John started to wank, Sherlock started to lick wetly at John's nipples, then sucked the moisture away noisily, only to leave even more spit behind when he was done.

John grunted with each long and messy suck, then keened each time Sherlock mewled in pleasure. "Sher…Sher…oh Sher…mmmmmm."

Back bowing, John Watson went and added a lovely warm mess all over his belly. After a boneless little while he began to dreamily slick their messes together.

Sherlock watched in drowsy fascination and finally said softly, "I only made one wish actually."

Sherlock remembered that day at the build-a-bear workshop, how patient his parents had been at how serious he was about it all. How intently they'd watched Sherlock put his bear together. And how solemn their faces as he pressed Rosie's purple-sparkle heart to his little-boy lips. "I would like a friend please," he'd whispered, "A very best friend please. Thank you."

Then Sherlock had tucked Rosie's heart inside her soft little body and hoped for the best.

Turned out, well, it turned out that Sherlock got so very much more than that.

_Allmannerofsomethings shared the story of a little boy and his poorly bear, and of whispered secrets to little bear hearts. When she offered these as a prompt for this series she was very, very patient under the over-excited onslaught of my holy-dear-god-yes-thank-you-thank-you-so-much-thank-you. Then, oh _then_ she [drew some beautiful artwork](https://allmannerofsomethings.tumblr.com/post/143433331009/this-is-john-he-mended-you-sketchbook-pen) and _then_ Lockedinjohnlock gave the marvellous gift of [recording this chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/chapters/16289216). Thank you Allmannerofsomethings, thank you Lockedinjohnlock, thank you!_


	3. The Lost Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the great big seventy kilo dog opened his giant mouth, John saw so many terrible sharp teeth and such a huge wet tongue, that little Johnny Watson completely lost his shit and screamed—
> 
> "Fffuuuuck off!"

The dog was huge. The dog was black. And the dog wanted John.

John was small. John was terrified. And John could not move.

The Newfoundland snuffled closer.

Rooted to the spot in his own front garden, John was too frightened to blink.

The Newfie wagged himself nearer.

John was too scared to cry.

And when the great big seventy kilo dog, whose name was Buddha, opened his giant mouth to yawn, John saw so many terrible sharp teeth and such a huge wet tongue, that six-year-old Johnny Watson completely lost his shit and screamed—

"Fffuuuuck off!"

And little Johnny ran away.

Right out into the road John went and up onto the far kerb and round the corner and under a shrub and once he was on the high street he damn well didn't turn around to see if the dog was following, no, but he did keep screaming "Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off!" the whole time because Harry's friend's sister said that to make Jessie and Harry go away, and Harry said it to John to make _John_ go away, and so John said it at the top of his little lungs to make the big dog go away.

And in the process of all that going and all that shouting, John Watson disappeared.

* * *

Mycroft liked the jam-filled crepes and daddy liked the cream. Usually mummy tried something new and so Sherlock often did, too. _This_ time Sherlock had the toffee crepe but he was already planning on which _other_ crepe he'd try next time, since they came back to this tiny Crouch End bakery every other month because everyone in _this_ family had a sweet tooth and so _next_ time Sherlock would try the crepe that had _ice_ cream in it but _that_ wasn't the most interesting bit about _this_ visit.

The interesting thing this time was the lost boy.

Because even while they ate, every few minutes some adult would duck through the door of the crêperie and ask, "Has anyone seen a little blond boy? His name is John and he was scared and someone saw him running this way but no one can find him."

After a few minutes of saying, "No, we haven't seen him," mummy and daddy decided it was time to help look, so Mycroft went with daddy and Sherlock with mummy and they began searching for the little lost boy.

The thing is, though Sherlock was only six, he knew everyone was doing the looking _wrong,_ even mummy, who usually did everything right.

All the grown-ups were searching the same shops and looking in the same big rubbish bins and glancing into the same sewer grates but none of them were looking _up._

This would be a big bug-bear for Sherlock Holmes in his adult years and without any provocation whatsoever he'll often launch into a nearly-Shakespearean monologue about the elegance of _elevation,_ of how the detective who wishes to _see_ must see above his or her damned _head._

Anyway, that's in the future, right now Sherlock knew that a scared kid climbs if he can, so Sherlock looked _up._ Sure enough it wasn't even five minutes before he saw a wood ladder nailed to the side of a single-storey nail salon, and with just a glance at mummy Sherlock ran to it, and clambered up, up, up.

* * *

The second that chaos of dark hair peeped over the rim of the roof John Watson lost his shit again. Not even thinking that dogs don't climb ladders, he saw that big mess of blackness and started shrieking "Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck, fuck, fuck _off!"_ as loud as he possibly could and for good measure threw two empty cola cans and a rock, striking home with all three. He was rewarded when the black hair went away.

Yes, well, it was gone for just a few seconds, the few it took Sherlock to give mummy the thumbs up and then shout at the boy he couldn't see, "Stop throwing things!"

With a deep breath Sherlock poked his head over the roof edge again and said, "Are you John?" despite quick-fast deductions—blond hair, fear-wide eyes, tear-streaked cheeks—that told him this very much was the lost boy.

Sherlock didn't wait for a reply, instead getting onto the flat roof and walking over to the little kid who was even _littler_ than he was—and Sherlock always felt really small because Mycroft was thirteen and just seemed so _huge._

John watched the boy sit cross-legged in front of him and he said, "I'm sorry about the rock."

Sherlock shrugged his forgiveness and after introductions on both sides, including names, the schools they attended, where they lived, how many siblings they had, which movies they liked, how fast they could run, what they wanted for Christmas, what crepes they liked, which ice cream flavour was best, and how big the dog had been—"really fucking big!"—and then some giggling about the naughtiness of swear words, Sherlock held out his hand, John took it and, their small frames counter-balancing so naturally that neither boy stumbled, both boys stood.

"Do you think it's down there?" John asked nervously as they approached the edge of the roof.

To be honest, Sherlock didn't think it could be, but just in case he said, "My brother stares really, really good and he can make dogs run away and also—" Sherlock still clutched John's hand super tight, but with the other he picked up a rock. "—I'll hold you and you can hold this. You throw really good."

* * *

That was how John Watson met Sherlock Holmes one summer when they were both small, and they're each pretty sure that that's when the seeds of some of the… _things_ …they like were planted.

Like the hand-holding.

Most times it's their pinkies linked when they walk down Baker Street doing nothing much.

Sometimes it's palm pressed against palm on a restaurant table while they bicker about the basics of a case.

Yet other times it's one holding the other's hand against his chest as they slump on the sofa and watch TV, a finger idly tracing love lines they don't really believe in, yet still smiling soft when they see that those lines are etched deep.

Or sometimes, well sometimes it's John, on his belly on their bed, back bowed so that his bare arse is presented perfectly for eating out, and he groans as Sherlock laps at him, and he keens as Sherlock's tongue slicks inside, and for the longest time John's close, close, so close, humping his own hand and spreading his legs wider, and it goes on so long his throat gets dry and he's dizzy from panting and then Sherlock will do it. He'll reach up, thread the fingers of their left hands together, and he'll hold so fast and so tight, that finally, good god finally, John comes.

Yes, that, the hand-holding, it's one of their things. One of the seeds that grew into the beauty of ritual.

Then, there's the swearing.

They've talked about this. A lot. For years. Because John thinks he shouldn't even though he constantly does, while Sherlock knows a well-placed curse most certainly has its uses.

Like that time John said, "Holy happy Christ I will so love fucking you right up," to the guy with the bat aimed at the back of Sherlock's head? Yeah, well that guy totally didn't see John's fear-shaking hands, didn't know John was still wearing a knee brace from a slip on winter ice. No, all the guy with the wavering cricket bat knew was that John sounded almost _needy,_ and he couldn't tell if John wanted to beat the shit out of him or screw him and it didn't matter, the guy dropped the damn bat and flew like one down that alley and—hosanna!—right into the brace of waiting coppers.

Or there was the time Sherlock briefly lost every deductive capability he had and was so sure John secretly hated his fiftieth birthday gift of a dozen different sorts of haggis—"In honour of your Scottish heritage John!"—that Sherlock actually got nervous hiccoughs and had to put his head down between his knees.

Having already eaten half of three of them John wasn't sure how Sherlock had come to his conclusion but he successfully disabused his one true love of the falsehood when he said, "Sherlock. _Sherlock._ Listen to me. I love these so much that if it were possible I'd fucking shag every last fucking one of them, _then_ take them home to meet my mother. Fucking _really."_

Finally, there is the little matter of swearing in bed.

It's not something John does often in actual fact, but sometimes, when Sherlock's worked too hard or not hard enough, when he's depressed or the joints of his soul are out of true, John'll wake himself early and he'll creep down beneath the duvet, then slowly and carefully he'll lick and suck until Sherlock's cock stirs itself awake, hard, wet.

Usually Sherlock stirs then too, sighing and loose-limbed, and underneath the cover John'll keep licking and sucking and between those he'll hum, "Fuck me, mmm, please fuck me."

Sometimes Sherlock will, but most times Sherlock just hums back, weaves his fingers through John's hair, and opens wider, whispering, "Fuck, fuck, fuck," until eventually his thighs are shaking as he comes.

So there's that seed planted long ago too, the swearing, though there's more things beside.

Like a mutual love of great big dogs and a hatred of cola. There's also the thing where they get crepes up in Crouch End every other month, and the one where they throw rocks on the water in the park's boating lake.

Mostly there's them, day-in and day-out. John and Sherlock, hand-in-hand, holding tight.

Once lost, forever found.

_I've no conscious recollection of what prompted this one, absolutely none. I do have a recollection that it's been a little bit since[I asked this](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/143072310029/1-star-or-5-every-review-is-good). Or more importantly just leave a comment here, because I do so love them, and could use a few today. P.S. Don't worry, Buddha went and walked himself back home! P.P.S. Please look below at the perfect cover for this series by Missmuffin221, then listen to the podfic by Lockedinjohnlock._


	4. Kiss Kiss, Kill Kill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dark-haired boy looking at John seemed simultaneously murderous and terrified. John was besotted instantly.

"Don't do that."

The blonde boy kept doing that.

Sherlock scowled. He was seven and small, but his scowl was already quite a bit bigger than the rest of him. Problem was, the blonde boy wasn't even looking, and it had taken nearly all Sherlock's courage to come over and say the few words he'd already said.

Now Sherlock had no clue what to do.

Then the blonde boy did it again. He tugged the bloom off a flower stem and chucked the flower into the placid Regent's park pond.

_Thwack!_

Another duck got it right in the noggin with a heavy red carnation. It flew away with an indignant quack and Sherlock danced on his toes in agitation. "Don't! You'll kill them!"

John Watson turned from the bridge railing, blinked himself alert. A dark-haired boy stood a half dozen feet away, wringing his hands. The boy looked simultaneously murderous and terrified.

John was besotted instantly. He expressed this by reflexively clutching another carnation head.

The boy started dancing on his toes faster. "Oh no you'll kill them, _you'll kill them."_ His little round face was such a hectic red he looked like a rocket ready to launch or about to blow.

Infected by the other boy's panic, John clutched his ragged flowers harder and—

"No!"

—the rocket launched.

Kind of.

Currently made up of mostly growth-spurt arms, Sherlock threw himself forward and used those lengthy limbs to smack all the flowers out of John's hands. He then step-tripped backward and started to cry.

John went wide-eyed with shock. He looked at his hands. At the tatty flowers slapped down to bridge slats. At Sherlock. And then _he_ started to cry.

At almost eight-years-old John was a much better crier than Sherlock. It took two seconds tops before he went from uncertain sniffles to great walrus-sized sobs.

Sherlock was instantly entranced and mortified. He hiccupped himself to quiet weeping and tried to explain. "They're only little and y–you w-were mean!"

Sherlock's voice was high and breathy and aggrieved, and it was right then John became capable of hearing that one voice above all others. He raised his eyebrows so high they made little wrinkles on his forehead, and he sniffled, "Hu?"

Confused at the other boy's confusion, Sherlock waved a noodley arm at the waterfowl and was maybe about to start crying again.

Panicking right back, John looked at the pond, the ducks, and at the heads of nine red carnations bobbing in the water. He glanced at the ruined bouquet at his feet and wasn't sure how most of the flowers had ended up in the water but he said, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," anyhow.

Sherlock stopped starting to cry and instead did the d-word thing that Mycroft had taught him. He looked at the boy's shaky little hands, at the dried tracks of older tears and said, "You didn't mean to hit the ducks with the flowers." He was immediately rewarded for this correct deduction with a blonde head bob. Sherlock forgot to cry. He smiled. The other boy smiled back.

And, sat under a shade tree a few dozen feet away, Mycroft Holmes echoed those grins. Slowly he withdrew the fingers he'd tight-clutched into the iron lace of his park bench.

When Sherlock had stopped courting bees on a hawthorn shrub—that's what he called his efforts to coax the insects close, "I'm courting them My!"—and walked toward the little bridge, Mycroft had looked up from his book.

He'd seen Sherlock's jutting chin and hesitant march, saw the blonde boy and ducks in the near distance, and Mycroft knew what his little brother was about to do. He had almost risen, followed. He had wanted to, started to, he—no.

Instead fourteen-year-old Mycroft Holmes had weaved his fingers into the bench's iron lace and made himself still by holding tight. Because courage is something we teach ourselves, Mycroft knew. So he held tight. And tight. And tight.

* * *

Some lessons are never learned. And some are learned very well indeed.

A dark-haired little boy who seems too long in some places and much too big in others, will learn to reflexively respond when kids shout, "Hey bobble head!"

A sensitive boy who can see hurt and sadness in another, will soon learn to hide those things in himself when he's called _ugly_ and _freak._

And a bright, strange little boy who's learned so many lessons about being different and alone, well some time in his seventh year he'll learn he can protect something even littler than he. So when a blonde boy keeps hitting ducks with flowers, Sherlock finds he has the nervous courage to _do something about it._

When Sherlock makes that boy cry is when Sherlock learns how things can look one way and be another and right then he smiles big to make things better. And they are.

"My name's John," John says, wiping his nose on the back of his hand and sitting down on the little bridge, small feet hanging over the water but not touching.

Sherlock thumps down next to him and immediately starts swinging his legs. "Hello I'm Sherlock."

John looks weepy again. He stares at his hands. "I didn't mean t'. I didn't."

Some lessons are never learned. And some are learned very well indeed.

A blonde little boy who sees hurt and sadness in another will learn he wants to fix those things, but isn't always sure how.

A sensitive little boy who tries to give another boy a big bunch of Valentine's Day carnations will learn that his teacher thinks that's wrong when the man tells him, "No John, no. Take those back. Boys don't give other boys flowers, that's not okay."

But a bright, strange little boy can learn that he doesn't want to learn some things. If it's not okay to give Andy—who falls down a lot and always has plasters on his knees or his elbows or his chin—something pretty to make him smile, then John doesn't want to know _why_ it's not okay. Knowing why makes it real.

But not knowing isn't the same as not being sad, so even though he wasn't supposed to stop in the park on his way home John stopped. He didn't realise he was pulling the bouquet apart and he certainly didn't realise he was hitting ducks with a marksman's precision each time he chucked a flower into the water.

He's glad that Sherlock told him, so he tells Sherlock something.

"You have pretty hair," he says, because John's own hair is very plain and he wishes he had big, fluffy hair like Sherlock. And also, _also?_ There's a small part inside John, a small, much-older part inside him that's thinking _Fuck you Mr. Reder, boys can care about other boys. And boys can tell other boys that they are pretty._

Sherlock smiles big and, leaning toward his new friend, Sherlock bows his head and pipes, "Want to touch it?"

John does. So John does.

* * *

"Touch it," John says, getting into bed and bowing his head toward Sherlock.

Sherlock pulls the duvet to their chins, then wriggles a long arm out as his husband settles. He brushes his palm over John's fresh crew-cut.

"Lestrade says I look just like Sai's old sweetheart now. He thinks this time we've got her."

For once Sherlock doesn't care about the case. Sherlock cares about remembering the first time John did this, fifteen years ago, after he joined the army. Sherlock hadn't liked it then. He feels differently now. John isn't going away this time.

"Can I do it again?"

John moves closer, their bare bodies warming the world beneath the duvet, and he wiggles his foot between Sherlock's ankles, hooking them together. He bows his head a little more and Sherlock does again what he did all those years ago, before John was deployed, he brushes his lips against the short, short hair and starts monologuing.

He told John how the prickly-soft hair felt against his kissing, kissing mouth. How Sherlock couldn't lip at it, could barely take hold of it with his teeth.

Sherlock then chatters about how that grey-dusted fuzz feels against his flushed nipples and his neck, how it makes the one pebble up and the other tickle.

Then they shift in the dark and this is when the monologue goes breathy and high and even though Sherlock's shaking thighs sometimes tighten against John's ears, John can still hear Sherlock's voice above all other sounds, so when Sherlock rubs his blood-swollen cock against John's head, John can hear Sherlock's mumbles of "good" and "soft" and "t-t-tickle," but mostly John hears Sherlock's pleasure when he ruts and rubs until he comes.

John pretend-complains about come pooling into the shells of his ears but Sherlock straddles him then squirms a hot tongue first in one ear, then the other, licking the come out while he rocks back and forth on John's cock.

Though it turns out Sai triple-crosses everyone again, evading capture for many more years, John keeps the short hair until London gets cold once more. By that time his ears are erogenous zones.

* * *

Some lessons are never learned. And some are learned very well indeed.

One day in Regent's park nearly eight-year-old John learned that he was a dab shot with a flower head. This led to learning he was even better with a Sig Sauer P226R.

On that same day Sherlock learned he could be brave and that the d-thingy Mycroft taught him really worked. This led to learning he could make a living from the science of deduction.

A couple days after that day in the park John learned that his mother knew many swear words, so, so many, when she learned what John's teacher had told him.

John never did learn that his mother went to see Mr. Reder, tearing so many strips off him that Reder ducked his head and apologised every time he saw her afterward. Even twenty years later.

Sherlock never did learn that Mycroft had watched over him that day in the park, nor would he ever know how many times his brother clutched at a bench or a desk edge or an umbrella, _not_ protecting Sherlock far more often than he actually did.

Finally, the second best thing John learned through all of this was that once in a great while, when Sherlock gets excited by something their bees have done, he will dance on his toes.

Those times John learns the best thing of all. He learns he can fall a bit more in love with his gangly, fluffy-haired love. Just a little, wonderful bit.

_Like John I keep learning I can fall in love just a little, wonderful bit more because I keep falling in love with these two. And, though I'm going to start publishing the occasional Star Wars fic, please do not leave me for I'm not leaving here—I shall be buried in the Sherlock fandom! One last thing: "great walrus-sized sobs" came right from Hyacinth_sky747's endlessly wonderful[What to Do When Your Flatmate is Homicidal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/383020/chapters/626541), which I probably reread every fourth month of my life. One last, last thing: Mr. Reder never again said that sort of shit to a child and John sat next to Andy every day for the rest of the year and gave him little treats he bought special. NEW! Allmannerofsomethings [created a perfect watercolour](https://allmannerofsomethings.tumblr.com/post/144974025359/you-have-pretty-hair-sketchbook-watercolour) for this chapter. Thank you All!_


	5. Come Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it takes a very long time to keep a promise.
> 
> The best ones, though, they're worth it.

Sherlock Holmes was a terrible student.

John Watson was worse.

This turned out to be lucky for Madeleine Hamlyn Watson, John Hamish Watson, and Sherlock Holmes, in that order.

But first it was lucky for Altamont Holmes.

For months Sherlock's father had despaired of finding his seven-year-old son a tutor capable of coping. Coping with a too-bright boy yes, but more so the houseful of curious Holmeses that came with him.

Mycroft was the worst. As Harrow was barely a dozen miles from their Hampstead home, Mycroft lived _at_ home. So every afternoon the fourteen-year-old boy brought back a dozen heavy books, curiosity, and questions.

Good lord with the questions.

One tutor had compared his style to "grilling." Another called it "peppering." A third had been more lyrical about it, using words like "probing, dissecting, quizzing, and scrutinising." The day another tutor had used the word "inquisition" had been _that_ tutor's last day.

It was fine actually, tutors could be arranged to come while Mycroft was at school.

And then it was not fine actually.

Professor Maureen Vernet Holmes taught mathematics at both Harrow and Westminster, performed experiments in the labs she had at each institution, and wrote a half dozen academic papers a year. And yet…and yet the professor still somehow managed to be at home whenever a tutor was in the house.

Maureen was the worst. She never said anything to the people who came to teach Sherlock biology, English, and history, not one word. She simply sat in on each lesson, usually thinking about some abstruse detail vis-à-vis combustion, yet her mental distance was not at all evident to the tutors, each of whom believed themselves weighed, measured, and found wanting.

This was fine actually, as Altamont discovered a tutor who would pop in on demand, coming over when Maureen was teaching somewhere, burning something, or otherwise physically occupied elsewhere.

This meant alone time for the tutor and for Sherlock.

And Altamont.

 _Who was the absolute worst._ Cheery, solicitous, courteous he was everywhere.

If Sherlock's lesson took place in the back garden the tutor inevitably found Altamont's thin face peering alertly from the window overlooking the picnic tables on which books were spread.

If it was raining and the lesson took place inside, the tutor found themselves inundated with homemade eccles cakes, spiced rhubarb pie, and silky lattes made with Altamont's own La Cimbali M39 TE Dosatron.

When the most recent tutor quit, citing his ten pound weight gain, Altamont had despaired.

Then a friend of a friend had suggested Madeleine Hamlyn Watson. Within five minutes of their phone conversation Madeleine had agreed to tutor the youngest Holmes. When then warned that her new charge was inclined to flit and fly from topic to topic Madeleine said the fateful words that would change the life of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes forever.

"Oh, my boy's just the same."

Then it was Al's turn to tickle Fate with his reply. "Well, why don't you bring him with you? Surely it can't hurt."

Yes. Well. About that it turned out Al Holmes was a liar.

Because it hurt.

_It hurt a lot._

"Mount Everest! Eight thousand eight hundred and forty eight!"

"Manaslu! Eight thousand one hundred and fifty-six!"

"K2! Eight thousand six hundred an' eleven!"

The two boys got along like fire and fuel. At the top of their lungs they shared with each other everything Maddy taught them, then everything they learned on their own. Including the highest mountains in the world, coffee drinks—

"Cortado!"

"Doppio!"

"Ristretto!"

"Zorro!"

"That's not a real drink!"

"Yes it is!

"No it isn't!"

"Daddy made it this morning for your mummy and she said 'mmmm!'"

"Okay!"

—the gestation period of mammals—

"Cats, 64 days!"

"Elephants, 617 days!"

"African or Asian!"

"Asian!"

"Okay!"

—and the bones of the body—

"Sacroiliac!"

"Femur!"

"Fibula!"

"Patella!"

"That's up higher!"

"No it's not!"

"I remember because tib and fib, tib and fib!"

—and more.

"Hydrogen!"

"Helium!"

"Lithium!"

"Beryllium!"

By the end of every lesson Altamont was peering round the nearest corner, holding a bottle of paracetamol. He always shared.

"Why do they _shout_ so much," she whispered after every lesson, dry swallowing two pills. Al always shrugged.

And so it went, for months, and then for a year, until Sherlock finally found his footing in school. Even so Maddy stayed on awhile, until Maureen was asked to write a book and the whole clan moved closer to Harrow, where the professor would have more ready access to the only fireproof lab in London.

They didn't quite cry at the end of their final lesson, but the boys did put their foreheads together and whisper to each other for a long time.

No one ever knew about what.

* * *

John had a hard time finding work after Afghanistan.

No, that's not right. John had trouble finding work he _liked._ Giving flu jabs was not fulfilling. Explaining the difference between a virus and bacteria vis-à-vis antibiotics left him restless. And so when Mike told him about a part-time position with the Metropolitan Police Service, John quit his small job at a small clinic and took it.

He was a little disappointed.

Though why John, well past thirty, had had the childish expectation that he'd be running down dark alleys with police, he wasn't sure. In the end he was on rotation between a half-dozen city boroughs, where he gave flu jabs to detectives and constables at the end of their shifts, and he explained the difference between a virus and bacteria vis-à-vis antibiotics.

John kind of liked the job, but he knew something was missing. He just didn't know what.

Eventually he was assigned to the Met's Westminster borough. There, in the heart of the city, things picked up. Sometimes he saw officers who'd suffered an interesting sprain, a scrape, a bruise. More times he saw officers who needed an ear, or encouragement, or just a moment to breathe. Before he knew it, John felt relevant again, of use. Whatever he'd missed, he'd finally found it.

Well, mostly.

Then one night the good doctor Watson saw his first and only _consulting_ detective. Right away that man went and said a few fateful words as he walked into John's tiny office. Those words were these:

"It's my patella and believe me it's fine."

Detective Singh had only just left and John hadn't even had a chance to look at his new patient's paperwork, so instead John looked at his patient.

The man was tall and dark-haired and gesturing at his left leg. "It was a stumble against a kerb. Nothing at all. It's fine."

John gestured at a chair. "Okay, then this'll be quick. You said the patella?"

The man perched, tugged up his trouser leg, bared his shin bone. It was inflamed and scraped bloody. "Ah, that's your tibia by the way. Looks like it took—"

"Patella."

"What?"

"My patella." The man pointed at his shin bone. "That's my patella."

John smiled. "No, I'm afraid that's higher up."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"No it's…it's…"

Both men looked up from Sherlock's gory scrape. Both sat upright. Neither said a word. Then John made a long arm and grabbed his patient's file. He didn't look at it though.

"Sherlock Holmes," said John Watson.

"John Watson," replied Sherlock Holmes.

Both men grinned like giddy fools. They had the sudden urge to shout loudly. They didn't though.

But DI Superior did end up waiting an twenty extra minutes before Dr. Watson saw her.

* * *

"Come back," John mumbled sleepily, both arms reaching from the bedclothes. Sherlock turned off the loo light, yawned jaw-cracking deep, fell back on to the bed. John's arms wrapped round his shoulders and they both slept again.

Dawn was blushing through the curtains when the chill got to be too much for Sherlock's toes. He woke again, yawned again, got up to pee again. All that beer last night had helped close the football fraud case, but it hadn't done much for Sherlock's bladder.

He pissed again, flashed a post-case grin in the mirror, bounced on his toes. He strode into the bedroom, hands on his hips. Another case closed! Another foe vanquished! Another— _oooo!_ Another day to use the microtome John'd got him!

Sherlock hooted. They'd been so busy the last two weeks he hadn't even had a chance to do the thing with the slices of nasal cartilage. Well, he knew exactly how _his_ morning was going to go! Why he could—

"Come back."

The murmur was softer than Sherlock's barefoot dancing about, but he heard it anyway. He turned to John, nestled deep under the duvet, but with one steady, steady hand reaching for him.

Sherlock went back to bed, he always did.

"I missed you," John said in response. He always did.

It was blissful-warm beneath the duvet. Sherlock's cold toes sang an ode. Then John sang one when Sherlock discovered his morning wood and wriggled deep to get at it.

There was a brief struggle when dark curls unexpectedly tickled and John just about kneed Sherlock in the eye socket. The speedy application of mouth, tongue, and throat to a heavy cock averted tragedy and everyone settled in happily.

Sherlock loved sucking John's cock. Sometimes what he loved best was feeling John twist beneath his hands, a warm-body squirm that made Sherlock emphatically feel John's presence, blood-warm and real in their bed.

Other times it was John's sounds, breathy pants that came in threes and fours, or vague words like "Ah, ah, ah," or half-uttered "Oh…oh Sher…" as he thrust shallow in Sherlock's mouth. Right now it was husky little grunts of "Yes," while Sherlock's tongue teased round the slick head of John's cock.

What Sherlock loved especially this morning was the jeans that had made their way in a bunch to the foot of the bed. He barely remembered kicking them off last night, falling into bed half-drunk and giddy. Right now they were a perfect mound of soft roughness between his legs, so Sherlock humped and squirmed and huffed.

John's hips slowed as Sherlock got louder and with the dreamy certitude of a man who knows what his man likes, John took hold of his own legs and spread them wider.

A bunched up pair of black jeans soaked up Sherlock's come and John's crotch soaked up his moans. A couple minutes after that Sherlock's arse took care of John's needs.

A bit later Sherlock padded back from the loo, crawled into bed, and snuggled into John's arms.

"I missed you," John said, pulling him close.

Sherlock sighed, sleepy, "Was'n…far."

"I missed you," John said again, only it wasn't about a trip to the loo, it never was. "All my life, I missed you."

It was about being eight-years-old and making a promise. It was about being only little and not realising how long some promises take to keep.

"I'll come back," they'd whispered to each other, foreheads pressed together that long-ago afternoon, before Sherlock moved away. "Promise."

Maybe that promise was why John returned to London after Afghanistan. Maybe it was why Sherlock turned down that perfect job offer in Paris.

They had made a promise to each other. Years and years ago. But John Watson and Sherlock Holmes? They keep their promises.

_This was prompted by JohnlockInferno (Frakme), who wanted John's mum to work in the Holmes family home, and by Stardust_Made's story[In June](http://archiveofourown.org/works/283365), in which Sherlock, about John, thinks: "I missed you so much, all my life." Thank you both! Also! Allmannerofsomethings so wonderfully [drew the boys making promises](http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/146202228534/allmannerofsomethings-ill-come-back). Thank you All, so much._


	6. O Brother, Where Fart Thou?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You want to know a thing you can do to get back at your brother? I did it to my sister once and she hasn't come into my room for a _year."_
> 
> Sherlock started picking excitedly at the skull-and-crossbones plasters laddered up his shin. He leaned close, whispered, "Tell me."
> 
> Reflexively John Watson began picking at the moustache bandage on his elbow, leaned even closer and said, "I'm John." What he said after that he said right up close to Sherlock's ear, soft and whispery, evil and _brilliant._

Sherlock Holmes hid behind the tree.

And suddenly he was ninja-invisible.

This was because Sherlock had shot up tall since his twelfth birthday and all that _up_ had reduced the _out;_ baby fat gone, he was now slim as a reed.

Or in this case a tree. Specifically the one behind which he was currently hiding. From his brother.

This hiding was necessary. Because Sherlock was going to do something _just. so. awful._ To Mycroft. His brother. Who deserved it.

He usually deserved it.

Seven years older than Sherlock, Mycroft was taller, smarter, more stubborn and, most grievous of all, he thought it was wrong that Sherlock had gone to the cinema to see—

"What are you doing?"

John Watson had walked all the way across the park in order to pose this question to this intriguing stranger, because John Watson kind of has a thing for covert ops and boy did the kid hiding behind the tree look like he was doing something cool and covert.

So he snuck stealth across the park and he asked the boy _what's up?_

Sherlock looked at the short stranger with his short blond hair. He was immediately impressed by a couple things. The boy was very smart because he'd naturally stood in the tree's shadow, as perfectly invisible to Mycroft a dozen yard away as was Sherlock. He was also impressed by the boy's expression, which had every necessary nuance of _complicitness._ He was clearly totally behind whatever Sherlock was doing, which happens to Sherlock absolutely never.

These two things led to a couple other things: Sherlock immediately trusted the boy and so Sherlock answered him.

"I'm hiding from my stupid brother."

"Why?"

"Because he got me into trouble."

"Why?"

"Because I went to see that film at Leicester Square today and—"

"I _love_ that film!"

"I know! But Mycroft doesn't! He says it's stupid and derivative and scientifically inaccurate and since I'm studying for my GCSEs I wasn't supposed to even be at the cinema and so he told on me and daddy came to fetch me."

John reeled back. "You didn't get to…to…to see it?"

"No.

"Not even a little?"

"No."

"Not even a _little_ little?"

Chin high, back straight, Sherlock shook his head in the manner of all aggrieved everywhere.

This was too much for John. He sat down heavy under the exceptional burden of this knowledge. And, just like that, John Watson was one _million_ percent on the side of Sherlock Holmes. It would be his default state for the rest of his life.

But right now John was kind of woozy with his disbelief so he whispered, "Your brother should be sorry."

Sherlock agreed that this was so.

John Watson whispered again, lower than the first time. "I bet he isn't though."

Sherlock sighed, his sorrow entirely too large for his skinny frame.

One more whisper, only this one was kind of spooky, maybe a little bit evil. "You want to know a thing you can do to get back at him? I did it to my sister once and she hasn't come into my room for a _year."_

Sherlock took a deep breath and at last committed to this stranger, plopping his butt onto the lawn. It was here that the universe, which has always and _will_ always take pains to ensure these two meet no matter their when-or-where, heaved itself a sigh of relief.

Sherlock started picking at the skull-and-crossbones plasters laddered up his shin, leaned close and whispered, "Tell me."

Reflexively John Watson began picking at the moustache bandage on his elbow, leaned even closer and said, "I'm John." What he said after, he said right up close to Sherlock's ear, soft and whispery, evil and _brilliant._

* * *

Mycroft is many of the things his little brother thinks he is.

Taller of course, what with their seven year age difference, though Sherlock's recent growth spurt speaks of a height to match Mycroft's eventually. Mycroft looked forward to that.

Smart, certainly. Smarter than his tutors, his brother, nearly as smart as mummy. With a bit more time Mycroft is reasonably certain he'll match the sharpness of his mother's mind if not exceed it.

However, unlike Sherlock, Mycroft would not call himself stubborn. Capable of finding the perfect path toward a goal, yes, focused, yes. Just as he believes his bright brother should be vis-à-vis studying for his GCSE exams.

Mycroft checked his watch. That reminded him, it was time for Sherlock's literature tutorial. With any luck his little brother wasn't still angry about this afternoon's small contretemps vis-à-vis the cinema. He could be such a petulant creature sometimes.

Still, on his way home from the library Mycroft picked up a cinema magazine with that ridiculous space pirate on the cover. How Sherlock thought she was—never mind. It was a peace offering, he didn't _have_ to understand the allure.

A half hour later and Sherlock seemed more than happy to accept the magazine. After the brief moment of bonding they, as always, stretched out on Sherlock's floor in deference to the dozen books they were using and they were a mere half hour into the lesson before Mycroft realised that Sherlock had had absolutely no interest in being pacified.

For it was that scant half hour into the two hour lesson to which Mycroft _always_ _strictly adhered_ before Mycroft realised that the foul effluvium coming from his little brother's butt had been…planned.

Indeed, yes.

And though he knew many things did Mycroft, he would never know what brewed within Sherlock such a ferocious stench that day, one so foul Mycroft was rendered actually kind of stupid. He did know that the rest of the lesson passed in a shallow-breathing haze. He knew that Sherlock acted as if nothing at all was amiss. Mycroft also knew that he did not go into Sherlock's room for…well for maybe a whole _year_ after.

That bit is not really this story's important bit, though. The important bit had nothing to do with a lesson in the results of over-consuming dried Turkish apricots, revenge farts, or anything gross.

It had to do with how a friendship that will last a lifetime began, how two children together grew into men.

In the end it had to do with beautiful bottoms, body worship, and love.

* * *

It just figured that they only figured themselves out after John joined the army.

That was when John and Sherlock learned exactly who they were together and that together was what they were meant to be.

This meant that the first few times John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had sex they were twenty-years-old, keen, and on a schedule.

Because John only ever had one hour exactly before returning to base.

So their first time neither man even got his kit off. They kissed, they humped, they shoved their trousers to their thighs and stroked one another until they came.

The second time was pretty much the same, because this time an interminable red signal on the tube meant John was thirty minutes late.

The third time Sherlock panted, "Wait, wait," and tried to get his mouth on John as he came. He ended up with as much come in his eye as in his mouth.

The fourth time they were so bemused by the first three that they giggled throughout, but this time it was John moaning, "Let me…" and making it there in time to swallow everything.

The fifth time Sherlock fell over trying to take his jeans off so John got on the bedsit floor with him. They watched each other masturbate until their bellies were messy and slick.

The sixth time wasn't at all planned and maybe that's why they both came so fast that they this time actually had time for lunch.

While each of those half dozen times came with fine orgasms, none offered the sweetness of slowness, the chance to truly see.

That came now because, for the first time they _had_ time. John was on a long weekend's leave in London and the world was only them inside Sherlock's tiny bedsit.

They've had sex twice so far, fucked once and now, not quite two days in, they are making love.

Slow fingers running down a shower-damp belly, Sherlock watched a skitter of goosebumps form exactly where those fingers touched. He was fascinated by that comet trail, so he lipped then laughed when new gooseflesh tightened John's nipples into dark, pink buds.

That was when two things happened on instinct.

Sherlock wriggled up John's belly and latched on to a nipple with his mouth and—here was where instinct started—Sherlock didn't suck, he _suckled._

This was when John responded on instinct. Watching Sherlock nurse (that was the only word for it) filled his mouth with moans, made him want, and so he turned onto his belly, spread his legs, and whispered "Sh-Sherlock, _Sherlock."_

What should have spurred Sherlock to crawling up and clamouring on, well it didn't. It slowed him down and Sherlock _went_ down, between John's legs.

Once there he kissed the small of John's back, lipped the skin and licked his lips. Fresh sweat, salt-sweet.

Sherlock loves sweets. He would have more of that, much more if John would, if John would—

John did. He opened his legs wider.

Sherlock slid right on down, nuzzled with that nose at the top of John's arse, then dabbed his tongue on a freckle at the plump swell of John's left cheek.

You can taste a freckle. Sherlock learned that then, because that tiny mark was sweeter for sure, it enticed him to bite tender-hard, then suck. John spread himself again, so Sherlock went hunting for more freckles.

It was easy enough to see there were none on John's left arse cheek. There were also none on his right. That didn't mean there weren't any to be found in the _middle?_

Over the many, many years they will rut and fuck and love Sherlock will find himself here often, doing what he for the first time did now: flicking his tongue from the bottom of John's hole to the top. Salty? Yes. Sweet? Yes. Musky, dark, soap-scented, sweaty, _wonderful._

Another flick, another, and with each one John moaned, "Sher…lock, Sher…lock," and when he pushed his hand down between his legs and started humping, that's when wonderful became _necessary._

He may not yet be the legend he will become, but Sherlock's already got every gift he will need to embody that legend and he put those fine deductive skills to flawless use now, knowing when to lick, when to push his tongue inside, when to moan "more," as if he didn't already have everything John could give.

Turns out he didn't actually, not until John grunted and started to come. That's when John's hole clenched around his tongue. When blood blushed John's skin, raising the hot scent of sex. That's when wonderful and necessary became what they would be from this day on: _addictive._

That's not true actually.

To state it more plainly, eating out John's arse will be one of Sherlock's many pleasures in life, as will sucking John, bathing John, cuddling John, bickering with John, being married to John.

The thing that will be addictive is John himself. His dichotomous nature. His strengths, weaknesses, his praise and rare rebukes.

John Watson will be Sherlock Holmes' _addiction,_ his _necessity._

His absolute _wonder._

_LadyLaran said something about young John and Sherlock driving Mycroft mental and that naturally lead to farting. I'm so sorry LadyLaran. P.S. I know GCSEs are usually taken when a kid is 14 or older but of course Sherlock's special. (P.P.S. I made the pirate up, which I realise is not the answer it seems anyone wanted!)_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for 'There Once Was a Little Boy' by AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6544354) by [missmuffin221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmuffin221/pseuds/missmuffin221)
  * [There Once Was a Little Boy [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6724645) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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